


A Million Years Ago

by awesomeprussian1947



Category: Original Work
Genre: Mystery, Original Character Death(s), Other, Title inspired by Adele
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-04
Updated: 2015-12-04
Packaged: 2018-05-04 22:36:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,529
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5350949
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/awesomeprussian1947/pseuds/awesomeprussian1947
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She’d landed a job here almost four years ago, spending the majority of her time helping people<br/>find books or putting them away. It was nice. She’d spent the past one hundred and fifty years<br/>in chaos, so this was, putting it simply, nice.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Million Years Ago

The bustling streets of downtown Toronto on a Tuesday afternoon aren’t really the best place for a library. Whoever had decided to build one there must have been, frankly, sick of all the commotion outside and decided that thick walls and old books in the modern area was an easy escape. And they were right.  
There was a certain serenity to the place that one wouldn’t find just anywhere. The incredible size of the place (which placed the children’s area in a convenient quiet cranny far from the adult novels) seemed to echo a certain wisdom, an invitation to discover and learn. Qamaar just liked to read. That was fine too.  
“Uh, excuse me, where can I find Irish folklore?”  
She glanced up from her shelving job to a teenager already carrying a stack of books. She offered them a smile and pointed down the row. “The aisle right across from this one, on the left.”

She’d landed a job here almost four years ago, spending the majority of her time helping people find books or putting them away. It was nice. She’d spent the past one hundred and fifty years in chaos, so this was, putting it simply, nice.  
She hadn’t a clue why she had spent those years like that. Surely, were she normal, she should have been dead at least sixty of them. But she was instead shelving books and teaching youngsters their manners and ABC’s every other Wednesday and Friday at the local daycare. Of course, she hadn’t wasted all of her extra years. She’d served as a nurse in the First and Second World Wars, and before that, she had taught children in her home country, Syria. It was when she realized the lack of wrinkles on her face and kinks in her back that she stuck to less visible jobs. 

All the knowledge in the world and every last legend in every chapter of the Odyssey and the hieroglyphics of every tomb and she still hadn’t figured out what kept her alive. It wasn’t like she wanted to die; though she’d had much longer than most to prepare for it, she still feared death. That, at least, was a common human trait. There wasn’t much else in her that was. Her body couldn’t be counted as one, because it should be six feet under by now, not able and young. If anything, she’d grown stronger as she aged. But she didn’t know why.  
She was scared to seek any aid. She was an abnormality in and of herself, and the only success she’d had with physicians in the past was the diagnosis of several mental illnesses and infertility from birth. That made sense, in a way. 

Still, she’d come to accept it as it was and lived with it. As a native Middle Easterner, she’d stuck to wearing a headscarf in larger cities and a face veil paired with it in smaller cities where people could more easily track her appearance. It’s easy to draw in fine lines and wrinkles, but not deep set eyes and greying hair. Besides, it made her feel safer in general. 

It didn’t really matter. She’d grown accustomed to her ancient routine, and had found a sense of peace years ago to contrast the raging in her mind from her illnesses. She was making it work. 

On her walk to her car at the end of the day, Qamaar kept her head ducked and her steps light. Not everyone could be trusted, after all, and people liked to stare. She certainly didn’t carry herself with a confidence that matched her appearance; she didn’t look to be an adult quite yet, but walked with the sureness of a war general. She had saved one’s life in the First World War. Still, it attracted plenty of unwanted attention. 

“Hey lady! Where ya goin’, all dolled up? Aw, come on, babe, talk to me, don’t be a prissy bitch!” 

Vile. Best to ignore him. Revolting, how people could act. A shame. 

“Come on, come home with me, babe!” 

Just… No matter how many times this may happen, she still got angry. Oh, if only he would stop, stop-

There was a terrifying, thunderous crash behind her. 

He stopped. People began to scream.

She only risked one quick peek behind her at the mangled, bloody body of the drunkard who had been cat calling her, still almost draped over the front of the moving van with his bones certainly not how they should be. The cheery white of the vehicle was splattered with blood and chunks of flesh, though the people crowding around didn’t seem to mind. She could have saved him, were he not clearly dead. 

She ran from the scene. Best not to stick around for too long. 

People were so occupied with what happened and the reason for the wailing of sirens approaching that they didn’t notice Qamaar racing away from the area, away from her beloved library, into her car, and gone from the bustling streets of downtown. 

She made sure to drive safely, now more than ever. Didn’t want another accident, after all. That was unnatural in a car accident. Not the drunkenness of the man, but the damage to his body. He hadn’t just been hit by a car. No, that body really did match the context of being a war general, because it would take being run over by a tank for that much damage to make sense. 

The front door shut behind her with a quiet click. The apartment was silent aside from the soft, tiny steps headed towards her, and a questioning meow. A black cat sauntered up to her, walking right past her with a rub of its tail. The only companion that had managed to stay alive with her. She assumed it was the same curse. Still, how an alley cat had lived for so long, she had no idea. 

“Cleo, in the apartment. Don’t want to scare Mr. Edmond again, now, do we?” There was a low whine before the feline walked into the small living room again, as much an enemy to their elderly neighbour as he was to his pet dogs. 

She hadn’t really furnished their home much, because as much as she wished to stay, they’d have to move again soon. They, for sure. 

Cleopatra was the only family she had, the only one she’d ever had. The only one who hadn’t died. Named after the ancient ruler, and she acted about as righteous as one too but she was all that she had. Qamaar draped her coat over a stool and tossed her keys into a ceramic bowl on the kitchen counter. She headed to the one bedroom of her tiny apartment, tracing over where the doorframe was cracked in one spot from when the window was open and the door closed too hard. She hadn’t bothered with anything other than a bed, dresser, and a desk. She’d had a hundred and fifty years to enjoy luxuries, after all, a hundred and fifty years of diamond encrusted bedframes and mahogany tabletops. She could do with this just fine. 

Her phone startled her out of the task of changing into more comfortable clothes. Half dressed, she scooped it up and checked the number. Odd. Unknown caller. She shook off the feeling and answered the call. “Hello?” 

“Is there, uh… There a Miss Samaa here?” 

She straightened, uneasily fixing her hair behind her ears. “Speaking. Who is this?” Just one strange thing after another today. Her number wasn’t listed anywhere; she’d made sure of it. 

“I, uh… C-Could we talk somewhere more private?” 

Too sketchy. She hung up and tossed the phone on the bed and changed back into her outdoor clothes. “Cleo, carrier!” Oh, there was absolutely no way she would let anything bad happen to them. She took her phone and jammed it into her pocket, tightened her scarf around her head, and snatched up the small bag of necessities from under the bed. An old phone, money, a bottle of pepper spray… Well, she would be prepared. 

Lastly, she grabbed her laptop, with all her studies, in a large messenger bag, her chargers, and a few important documents before she was set to go. She’d leave the phone somewhere and stick to one of the old phones for the next little bit. Better safe than sorry. 

Cleopatra knew the drill. Cats could be incredibly clever, especially having lived a century and a half. Well, probably older. Qamaar had found the old cat when she was four, after all. Cleo was in her cat carrier where a few packs of cat food were always kept just in case, seated and calm. Qamaar slung the bag over her shoulder, stuffed the smaller bag into it, and used the other hand to carry the cat carrier. Now, Cleo was perfectly capable of following by foot and would easily be bribed into doing so, but they didn’t let cats on the plane without a carrier. She was thinking Japan. Somewhere far and unexpected. That was always the goal. Before Toronto, she'd been in Poland. Next stop, the Far East.


End file.
